Dr. Mikhail leaned on his cane, watching the security footage with trembling hands.
"There's no footage of Room 304," he muttered.
The nurse beside him frowned. "That can't be. Every room's wired."
"I said… there's no footage."
His voice cracked. "Because Room 304 doesn't exist. Not on record. Not on any blueprint after the fire."
The nurse stared at him.
"But I passed by it this morning," she whispered. "The door was cracked open."
Dr. Mikhail didn't answer.
He just turned the screen toward her.
"Then explain this."
The footage looped.
An empty hallway.
But in the reflection of a janitor's bucket—Room 304's door was wide open.
The nurse gasped.
Because inside that reflection…
A boy stared back.
Not walking. Not moving.
Just… watching.
From the mirror.
His eyes were wrong.
Too still. Too bright.
And behind him? A forest.
Not a room.
Not walls.
Trees.
Black and rotting.
Roots growing into ceiling lamps. Vines slithering up IV poles.
The mirror blinked.
And the footage cut to static.
---
Somewhere far away, Kael opened his eyes.
He wasn't sure if they were his.
The trees around him pulsed like lungs. The sky was grey static. And the ground beneath his feet had the texture of dead skin.
He tried to scream.
But no sound came.
Only a voice.
One he couldn't place. Soft. Genderless. Cold.
"Do you remember the deal, Kael?"
He looked around. "What deal?"
The voice came again, right behind him.
"You asked to forget. So we made you remember."
The trees moved. Twisted. Became faces.
All of them… his own.
Every version.
Crying. Screaming. Bleeding.
And one—smiling.
That one stepped forward.
Wearing Aya's face.
"There are no rooms, Kael."
"Only reflections."
Kael took a step back.
The forest floor opened.
And he fell into a mirror.
Shattering himself into a thousand screams.